Happy Birthday, Harry
by Mrs.Norris'paw
Summary: What would have happened on Harry's 17th birthday at the Burrow if Ron had not stormed in? What was that special gift that Ginny promised? A fluffy, dirty, quick one shot glimpse.


I do not own these characters.

A/N: This is short and sweet, and dirty, so if you want a quick romp- go on. If not- go elsewhere.

Happy Birthday, Harry

"Ginny. I- "

"Shh.." she urged. "Don't talk. Don't think. Just listen." To this Harry nodded; he was tired of talking and thinking, sometimes being.

"I know things aren't going to be easy…" she began. He couldn't bear to hear her relive the premature break-up.

"Please, Ginny."

"Just let me speak." He nodded again, forcing himself to listen.

"Look, all I wanted to say was happy birthday. And I mean that. Have a happy birthday, Harry- you need it."

Harry smiled crookedly then dropped his head; he was relieved and saddened by his overestimation of the conversation. He did not want to talk about what had to end, but, still, he did not want to forget it. He sighed deeply- he did need it.

Thick silence filled the room, what should he do? Was that it, should he leave?

Harry looked up at Ginny, her eyes burning through his skin- this was not good. Just being asked into her room made him half hard and having her look at him like that- it was almost too much. He tried, with as much conviction as he could allow, to muster the strength to concentrate on the platonic aspects of Ginny- she's Ron's sister (_she's not _your_ sister_) Yes, but she's a friend now (_She was your friend when she used to grind against you too) _But that's done- it has to be (_but you could die on this journey)_ It _has_ to be.

"I want to give you something Harry, for you're birthday" Ginny said. His heart began to pump furiously all the while he scolded _control yourself, control yourself! _

"I thought about what you might want, but everything I could think of seemed worthless- you can't take anything with you. So, Harry, my gift stays here in this place and one day you can return and take it with you." She moved closer to him then, the floors creaking underneath. Over her shoulder the dust hung in the air, sparkling in the sunlight. She smelled clean, her hair was freshly washed. His chest tightened. What if this was the last time he smelled her hair?

Her hand slid up his arm, over his shoulder, across his neck, up his face. She was so close he could hear her breathing, watch her pupils expand and contract. Then her lips, the sweetest lips, moist and soft, cushioned his own. Kissing Ginny was so simple, so natural. Chaste kissing, barley caressing one another's lips, became intense and dangerous. He could not- _would not_- think now. For now he was blind, for now he was deaf; he could only feel- feel her lips. He missed her, oh God, he missed her.

They began to fall back into the comfort of one another. The rhythmic kissing had once been so well executed as if it was choreographed, synchronized. This had been performed so many times, there was muscle memory there. And as if no time had passed, they began another show. One of her hands slid to his back (_2,3,4_) while the other move to the nape of his neck (_5, 6, 7, 8_). His arms wrapped around her waist (_1 and a 2_) pulling her firmly against his body (_a 3 and a 4_). And as the first act ended (and it have been only a one act performance before) she began to improv.

First, she broke the kiss, instead fervently kissing his neck, at the base of his neck, behind his ear (she licked there too, sucking his earlobe and making his left knee give out just a little bit). Then she looked up at him with a devilish smile and gracefully descended to her knees. His veins were throbbing so heavily now, he could hear the blood descending to where she kneeled. She unbuttoned his pants and pulled down his zipper, pushing his trousers to his ankles. She reached inside his underwear, pulling him out, licking his tip, watching his face. He was breathing so profoundly now, for a moment, he thought he might faint. She never did this before, _this_ was never apart of the show (_but he liked improv_). Her freckled hand wrapped around him and her mouth enclosed him. Her mouth was soft and hot, her tongue cradled him. She pumped her fist and head in opposition of one another moaning with pleasure (_did she like it too?_). Suddenly she let go, she took him out of her mouth, stood up and began taking off her clothes. All Harry was capable of was watching, waiting.

Her shirt was first, followed quickly by her bra- he watched them descend to the floor passing through the sparkling sunlight. When he looked up again she was completely naked, standing before him. As if in a trance, his mind made no thoughts, no reactions, he just walked towards her taking off the rest of his clothes too. When they kissed again he could feel her skin against his. She was warm, comfortable like a soft bed after a long, agonizing day. For a moment they only held one another feeling the flesh against flesh, listening to the heartbeats of the other. She sat on the bed and spread her legs and as if he was being called he leaned over her taking them both fully on the bed. They kissed once more as he guided himself in her. She was softer than anything he could believe, hot, wet, pulsating.

Kiss

Plunge

Moan

Sweat

Grind

Thrust

Waves

Pleasure

Ecstasy

Bliss

Love.


End file.
